


Art Therapy

by zeldadestry



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-13
Updated: 2006-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:00:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each time Lex turns a year older, Clark braces himself for yet another round of their bizarre routine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Art Therapy

Each time Lex turns a year older, Clark braces himself for yet another round of their bizarre routine. Lex paints a ridiculously self-aggrandizing and demonic portrait of himself, sends it to Clark, and then gets falling down drunk while waiting for Superman to arrive. Superman appears, returns the painting, and delivers a long, strident lecture which always includes stock phrases like, 'it's time to grow up, Luthor,' and 'Stop feeling sorry for yourself'. Lex sneers and jeers for the first five minutes or so, but then his expression changes and he just stares, eyes wide.

Today, when the courier delivers the package, he considers sending it back to Lex unopened. He'll say fuck it to this whole farce and the unsettling month that follows when he worries and wonders over what Lex is trying to tell him. He's tired of waking up in the night, thinking he knows, thinking he's suddenly translated the symbols, and then watching it all fade as his eyes open again to the morning light. He used to ask Lana to help him understand the paintings, and she'd show him works by Bosch and David, and say, "It's extraordinary, actually, the way he combines the archetypes of Medieval religious painting with Classicism." Clark would tell her he still didn't get it, and Lana would get exasperated and sigh and say, "It's not Astrophysics, Clark. There's no formula. I can't tell you what it means. You'll have to figure it out yourself."

He's no closer to an answer. But every time Clark's ever decided to give up on Lex, he's never been able to make the resolution stick. He knows there's still a bond between them, one they both acknowledge. He can't let go of the idea that things could be different, that they're on the wrong road, or maybe just going the wrong way down the right road, and it's still possible to turn around.

He holds the package in his hands, trying to decide. He hadn't realized he's come to anticipate these strange visions of Lex's, bold and terrible, wrapped in the plainest beige butcher paper and tied with a thin piece of rope. Every year when he gets one of these packages he remembers the first time he saw Lex paint, during a visit to Belle Reve. As long as he lives with those memories of Lex trapped there, he can never, ever, hate him or forsake him entirely. He unties the rope and untwines it. There's something soothing in the unbraiding, as though he were loosening a knot, putting everything back together as it should be. It comes apart in his hands, broken down into all the separate threads that when bound together had managed to secure far heavier loads than they ever could have done apart. He runs his hand over the rough paper. If he uses his fingertips, he can feel every individual fiber. It's not good, for his senses to be so finely calibrated, able to distinguish smaller and smaller components of what once seemed whole. He rips the paper off suddenly. He just has to see. And here it is, completely different from any of the other portraits. There's none of the 'I'm the scourge of the world!' bullshit from before. There's just the simple truth of Lex's face, of the sorrow in his eyes that's always been there, that has never lost its effect on Clark. If anything, the impact of Lex's pained expression has just gotten stronger as Clark's grown older, as he understands more. Well, no, he can't say he understands more, he's just seen more, more of the ways people can be destroyed and have to cut off parts of themselves to survive. Yeah, he knows about that. He puts the painting down and sits on the window ledge for a long moment, feeling the sun cover his broad back.

He walks to Lex's. The security detail at the building doesn't know him, and they look over him suspiciously as they make a call up to the penthouse. "He'll see you," says one of them, escorting Clark over to the elevator. Lex is standing in the hall when the elevator doors open, leaning against the door frame. Clark can see the long white hall of the apartment behind him. There's a large window at the end of it, and the sun shines strong, making everything too bright. Lex is in white, too, which Clark has hated ever since Belle Reve. Lex looks far too vulnerable in white. He looks far too vulnerable to Clark anyway. Clark can see every small crease in his face, every broken capillary, every pore.

"This is a surprise," Lex snits, but Clark notices how his fingers fidget with nerves.

"If you didn't want to see me, you would have sent me away."

Lex waves his hand in a dismissive motion. "I meant that I was expecting to see your distinguished colleague." He steps away from the frame and passes through into the apartment, gesturing that Clark should follow him. "Superman's the greatest savior of humanity since Jesus fucking Christ, right? Don't you worry about being crucified again?" He stops in the middle of the hall and turns back to face Clark.

Clark reaches his hand out to touch the sleeve of Lex's shirt. The linen feels substantial and thick between his fingers. "I don't worry about anything that's out of my hands." His palm slides over the curve of Lex's upper arm, rests on his shoulder. He wishes he could feel through things, just like he can see through things, wishes it wasn't the shirt he felt, but Lex's skin.

Lex steps neatly away from the tentative grasp. "I appreciate that philosophy. It's practical."

"If I were, wouldn't you be there again, save me from the crowd?"

"Who says I want to help you, this time around? Who says I won't be the one leading the mob, goading them on to destroy you?"

Clark shakes his head. Maybe he's misread the whole message. He doesn't understand painting. Maybe the fact that this year's portrait is so different doesn't mean a thing. Maybe Lex doesn't know what he meant by it either. Maybe Clark didn't come here for any reason other than curiosity. Maybe he doesn't know Lex at all, maybe it's been a figment, all along, clinging to someone long after they're gone, because you can't stand to lose them. Except, this year's painting, portrait, it lacked the fucking mask of all the others. Clark doesn't know much about art, it's true, but he knows when he feels something, when he feels something real, like he did today. This year's painting is stripped down. It's open and honest and that's why he's here. "Lex. The painting."

"Have you come to return it?" He speaks like there's a shard of glass caught in his throat. How could Clark have been so stupid to never think of this before? He's still returning Lex's gifts, year after year. Is this why Lex gives the gifts on his own birthday, because what he really wants is simply for it to be accepted?

"I didn't come here to return it."

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I like it. It's different than the others. I'd like to keep it, if you'll let me."

"Of course you may keep it." He's using that smooth, gracious voice he has, like he's still the perfect host. "I gave it to you."

"Thank you." Lex is walking again and Clark follows, peering into the rooms they pass and noticing that there are no pictures in the apartment, no photographs. Why has he never noticed it before, seen what a bad sign it is? Lex, all alone, trying to cut himself off even from his memories. "I wish I had something to give you."

They've reached the floor to ceiling windows at the end of the hall and Lex stops, reaches toward Clark to straighten his collar and smooth the front of his shirt. His hand comes to rest and press against Clark's breastbone. "I appreciate this."

"What?"

"That you came to see me without your costume. Even your face changes when you wear it."

"It's like my armor."

"I know. Am I an enemy? Sometimes I wonder if it's not impossible that we might be friends again, one day."

"We could be, Lex."

"When?"

"I don't know? Now?" An idea comes to Clark, ridiculous and tempting, and what better way to change their direction than by following this mad impulse? "You know there's an arcade just a few blocks away from here. My first year of college, I went there with some friends on my birthday. We should go." Lex actually looks intrigued, so Clark keeps trying. "Come on, Lex. It'll be fun. Let me throw you a little birthday party."

When they arrive, Lex wants to play old school, gravitating towards Tetris and pinball. He dominates in Tetris and trash talks the entire time, while Clark complains, "Lex, stop it! I can't concentrate!" When it comes to pinball, however, Clark is the undisputed multiball king and captures the machine's top three all-time scores.

Clark thinks they should try out Dance Dance Revolution, but Lex says he'd rather die. "I'm going to wear you down, Lex. I guarantee, by the next time we visit, you'll be begging me to play it."

"Sorry, Clark. Even you aren't charming enough for that."

"I can be really persuasive. You'll see."

"I look forward to it."

Win or lose, arcade combat must always end with grease and sugar. They head for the snack bar. Lex decides on orange sherbet, a conservative choice, while Clark gets a King Cone. Lex is half way through with his push up when he says, "Can we trade?"

"Hey. You made your boring choice and now you have to live with it."

"Oh, come on, Clark." Clark suspects this is the exact tone Lex uses during corporate negotiations when an offer is unacceptably low. "Don't be a greedy little piggy."

"Piggy?" Clark sticks out his tongue. "Insulting me is not going to get you ice cream."

"What will?"

"Say pretty please and do a little dance."

"I already told you. No dancing. "

"Hmmmm. You could compose a little song extolling my virtues and sing it for me."

"Or I could cease from throwing myself upon your mercy and just buy my own damn king cone. I have the financial resources to do so, you know."

Lex hasn't bothered to put his wallet back in his pocket and Clark snatches it away. "Ha ha! Now you're as good as broke and at my mercy again."

Lex ponders for a moment. "I'll tell Martha you were mean to me on my birthday," he says.

"Oh my god. You are such a tattletale. You suck!" As Clark hands Lex the ice cream cone, he can't resist smearing some on the tip of Lex's nose.

"I am going to murder you," Lex growls. "Get this shit off my face."

Clark leans in to rub his thumb over Lex's nose, picking up the ice cream and then licking it off. "Yum. Where's my sherbet?"

Lex grudgingly hands it over and Clark finishes the confection in one big bite. Lex looks aghast at the lack of table manners, but Clark ignores him. "You better finish the King Cone. It's melting. You'll like it. I gave you the best part, there's solid chocolate at the bottom of the cone."

"That's a dubious claim. You got the top part, which was sprinkled with nuts and chocolate and caramel. You got the better half."

"Go get nachos," Clark says, giving Lex his wallet back.

Lex looks warily at the vat of nuclear orange glop masquerading as cheese. "Is digesting toxic neon sludge one of your unique Kryptonian abilities?"

Clark slaps him on the back of the head. "Lex! Ixnay on the iptonian-kryptay."

After their snacks, they wander through the place, looking for one last game. Tucked away in the back, beside X-Men VS Street Fighter, which they play for a few rounds, is an old photo booth. Four pictures for five dollars, the sign says, and Clark plucks a twenty out of his pocket. Lex looks even more troubled than when he was confronted with Dance Dance Revolution. "I don't know," he says.

"Come on."

"I don't want to have my picture taken."

"Wouldn't you like a picture of me?"

"I guess."

"I'd like a picture of you." Clark drops in the twenty, pushes the curtain open and sits down on the narrow bench inside. "You'll have to sit on my lap," he says, reaching a hand out to Lex.

Lex's apprehension turns to horror. "That's humiliating. Absolutely not."

"Come on, you big baby. There's not enough space for us to sit side by side."

"You are a hulking, over-sized brute."

"Not my fault. It must be all those hormones they put in beef these days."

"Again, I'm more inclined to go with an extra-terrestrial explanation." Clark lunges for him, pulling him into the booth and snaking an arm around his waist to keep him from escaping. Lex pretends to struggle. "Cut it out! You're going to ruin the picture. This is the worst birthday ever."

Clark rolls his eyes. "Wow. I'm single-handedly worse than the childhood trauma of growing up Luthor? Amazing. I must be, like, the most horrible person ever."

"You're manhandling me. Sexual harassment is a crime."

Clark nuzzles his nose against Lex's cheek. "I kinda think you like it."

"Like it when you rub your snot on me? You're demented."

"The more you deny it, the more I know I'm right."

"What kind of twisted outer space logic is that?" The first flash goes off and Lex squints. "Shit. That's it, I'm blind."

"Just smile," says Clark. Lex throws an arm around Clark's neck, and Clark's grin grows to exceptionally dopey proportions.

Afterwards, they sit on a bench outside the arcade and divvy up the pictures. "You know what I'd like?" Clark says.

"What?"

"Will you promise me to hang these up when you get home? There are no photos in your house. It's really depressing."

"Do you know that I spent millions of dollars creating that space? It's considered a minimalist masterpiece of modern architecture. There are no photographs because no additional decoration is needed. The lines themselves are the adornment."

"Ok, I'm just going to go right ahead and ignore that excuse. Don't you want to remember today? Didn't you have a good time?"

"It was alright."

"Just alright?"

"You're pouting, Clark."

"Admit you had fun, asshole."

"Clark, this was quite simply the most amazing day I ever had. You are indubitably the most incredible person who ever walked the face of this or any other planet. Please don't leave me. Now that I've spent an hour graced by your glorious presence, I don't think I can bear to ever be apart from you."

"That's more like it, smart ass."

"It was a good day," Lex says. "I admit it." Clark can't help moving a little closer to him on the bench.

He leans over so that his lips are right beside the curve of Lex's ear, close enough to touch when he whispers, "Just don't put them away in a drawer where you'll never see them." Lex is blushing when Clark pulls away. Looking at his watch, Clark figures it's time to head to the office. Getting up from the bench, he says, "Happy Birthday, Lex. Maybe you can kick my ass at Tetris again sometime. And I love the painting, so, thanks." He walks slowly towards the subway, knowing that Lex isn't going to let him go just yet.

Sure enough, he hears Lex's footsteps hurrying behind him. "Clark," Lex says, falling into step beside him.

"Yeah, Lex?"

"I'm going to put the pictures up. It's just, it's difficult."

"What is?"

"Being reminded of you all the time, but being apart from you."

"It's easy, Lex. When you want to see me, come and find me."

"I don't know."

"Listen to me. I mean it. If you want to see me, let me know. I'll be there."

"We'll be together a lot, then."

"I wouldn't mind that. Would you?"

"I think I could stand it. For your sake, of course."

"Of course," Clark says, "for my sake," and their bodies leaning towards each other meet half-way.


End file.
